


Relieved

by Melissy123



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, M/M, Oliver is struggling, Post-War, Quidditch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:33:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25400176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melissy123/pseuds/Melissy123
Summary: The war is over, life is meant to be getting back to normal but Oliver can't stop thinking about everything that happened. The Quidditch season is starting and Marcus Flint stands across from him, Oliver can't help but wonder whether he had been there too (on either side). It shouldn't have mattered, they weren't close, they never had been (but it did matter- it mattered then, and it mattered now, and Oliver can't stop thinking about that either).
Relationships: Marcus Flint/Oliver Wood
Comments: 2
Kudos: 76





	Relieved

**Author's Note:**

> Some more Flintwood because it's my new favourite thing. 
> 
> I humbly apologise for any mistakes throughout this work, I tried to get them all but I probably didn't.

* * *

It was strange, being back on the pitch after everything that had happened. It had been months since the Battle of Hogwarts, Oliver still had nightmares. It felt both too soon for things to be getting back to normal and as if it had been too long. Their coach had made it very clear that no one expected them to play (Wood in particular, given that he was the only one in his team that had been involved in that final, bloody battle). There was never a time that he would refuse to play Quidditch though, his love for the sport hadn't changed. If Puddlemere had a match, then he would be there, it was as simple as that. It might even be a good thing, getting back into a routine. 

The Ministry had been working on getting the League back up and running for the past month, no doubt in an effort to boost morale. The war was over, but there had been a great deal of loss, a great deal of pain and destruction. 

Oliver shuddered. 

He never thought he would return to Hogwarts like that, he never thought he would see the kinds of things he did. To many of them, Hogwarts was a place of safety, a place where they couldn't possibly be harmed (give or take a few incidents). It was meant to be strong and indestructible, but it had been shattered that day. Buildings destroyed, the Quidditch pitch in flames, students (kids, children, that should never have been there) dead on the pavement. Oliver had carried enough of them into the Great Hall to know, and it wasn't something he was ever likely to forget. He still saw Colin Creevey, cold and still in his arms. He remembered him years ago, coming to all of their training sessions in his first year just to get a glimpse of Harry. He still heard Percy's distraught cries as they dragged Fred from the rubble (still breathing but barely, he had only just been released from Mungo's the month before). He still remembered when Harry was declared dead, the hopelessness, the fear. He had recognised too many of the dead, knew it could have just as easily have been him. He recognised some of those they had fought against too (though those children that had been brought into the fold did not fight with quite the same vigor as their parents, hardly even tried). He saw Malfoy, pale and thin, his usual sneer of contempt long gone. He saw Crabbe and Goyle. There were none from his own time, no Pucey or Higgs (that wasn't a surprise, but they could have easily have been dragged in as so many others had been), no Montague or Bletchley, no Flint (he couldn't deny his relief at that). 

Oliver looked across at the other team, it wasn't the usual line up for the Magpies, but the one man he was looking for was still there. Flint leaned against his broom, an expression of boredom on his face. It wasn't a look that would last for long, Oliver knew that. Of all the teams to play against first, he was glad it was Montrose. It was familiar, it made it easier. He looked good too Oliver decided (something he had vehemently denied while they were in school, but hardly had the energy to do so now). He was still as bulky as ever, muscles straining against his team uniform, there was no haunted look in those grey eyes of his. He looked the same, exactly the same, and Oliver was relieved, _so relieved_. 

(He had looked for him during the battle, hoped he wouldn't be there. Oliver was certain he wasn't, but couldn't be sure). 

It shouldn't have made a difference, they hadn't grown closer after going professional. If anything, their relationship had remained exactly the same. Fiery, short-tempered, violent, competitive. His teammates often asked if there was a reason they hated each other so much, and Oliver couldn't pinpoint it to any one moment. It had always been like that, since the moment they had faced each other for the first time and Flint had knocked him out in his first game. Now he wondered whether 'hate' was the right word for what they (or Oliver, at least) felt for each other. In Hogwarts, it hadn't just been on the pitch that they had fought. It had been every single day, whether it was in the hallways, or in class, they always had something to say. Even a smirk would be enough to rile Oliver up. That wasn't normal, was it? 

And now, when everything was the same but different, all Oliver could feel was relief. It was easy to fall into old ways with him, it was easy to forget when Marcus fucking Flint was barreling at you at full speed, throwing the quaffle with such ferocity that you would think Oliver had cursed him recently. 

It said a lot about how things were that even when Puddlemere lost, Oliver couldn't bring himself to care. It was the first game back, he was just glad to be playing, they all were. The League might have started up again, but it would take time for it to feel normal. Some found it easier, those that had managed to hide away without too much trouble, those that hadn't come from muggle-born families, those that hadn't faced too much loss. Oliver wasn't one of those people, he wondered if Flint was. And when both teams went out for a drink, and Oliver saw Flint slipping out, he would blame it on the alcohol that he followed behind him. 

"What do you want, Wood?" Flint snapped, his eyes narrowing. "Come to proclaim how well you'll beat us next time?" Oliver grabbed his wrist, pulling him into a side alley. He knew it was only the surprise factor that gave him the advantage, that allowed him to pull the larger man aside. Flint tore his wrist out of his grip, grey eyes blazing in furious fire. "What the fuck, Wood?" For a moment, Oliver remembered when Flint had tried to take the training field from the Gryffindors one too many times and he had thrown his broom aside, tackling the Slytherin Captain to the grass. It wasn't the first time, nor would it have been the last. "How much have you had to fucking drink?" Flint yelled, waving a hand in front of his face. "Have you lost your mind?" 

"Maybe," said Oliver. "It's- it's been weird since-" He frowned, deeply. He wasn't entirely sure what the game plan here was, what he had wanted to do. All he knew is that he had to know, he had to ask, he had to make sure he wasn't there. Oliver bit his lip (he missed how Flint's eyes followed the movement, however briefly), he already knew that it wouldn't be taken well. But he was a Gryffindor, he wasn't one to run away. "Were you there?" Oliver asked, finally. Flint's brow furrowed in confusion, his eyes guarded. "Hogwarts. I- I didn't see you and I just, I wondered..." 

For a long moment, there was silence. Oliver refused to look away, refused to flinch away from the flash of anger in the other's eyes. It wasn't like he was unused to seeing it. Flint stepped forward, Oliver very aware of the fact that while he was only slightly shorter then the other, Flint made up for that in size. Again, not that different from their school years (of course, now it was all hard muscle and Oliver had no chance of winning a physical fight if it broke out). 

"Are you asking if I was a Death Eater?" asked Flint, his voice ice cold. Oliver would have preferred he yelled at him. He stepped forward again and Oliver found his back against the cold stone wall, Flint far too close. Oliver could see the rage swirling in his eyes, could feel his breath against his face. "What do you fucking care? What fucking difference does it make to you?" 

"You didn't answer the question," said Oliver. 

Flint growled, "I don't need too, you already clearly think I would-" 

"I didn't say that." 

"You didn't have too! It fits the mould doesn't it? You Gryffindors go off and save the day, and we Slytherins are the bad guys. Bet you expected to see me there, right?" He pushed his left sleeve up, roughly. There was no Mark, only smooth, pale skin. Oliver had the urge to reach out and touch it, but he didn't. "Happy, you arrogant prick?" 

Yes. 

"Flint," said Oliver, his voice small. "I- I don't know why I care, I don't think I would care which answer you gave because- because you're still the same, it doesn't change anything but I looked. You'd think I would have other things to think about and I did, I still see-" He shook his head, that didn't matter. Flint frowned, some of the anger dissipating. He pushed back, his face unreadable. Oliver took a breath, "I looked, I wondered, and I think I wouldn't have been able to move on until I knew the answer for certain." 

"You looked?" questioned Flint. "For me? Why?" 

"I don't fucking know!" yelled Oliver. "I just- my whole time at Hogwarts revolved around Quidditch and- and you were a big part of that. If you were there I wondered if you were okay, if you weren't there, then I was glad. I don't know, there was a lot going on." He steeled himself, brushing off his robes. He didn't want to look at Flint anymore, didn't want to try and decipher the look that crossed his face. He had his question and he got an answer, that was all he wanted. "Whatever, look it was good to see you, okay?" Oliver moved to walk away, to return to the bar and drink himself silly but then a hand slid around his wrist and he felt that familiar tug at his navel as Flint apparated them both away. He stumbled, but Flint had a firm enough hold on him to keep him upright. 

"What-"

"Shut up for five seconds, Wood," said Flint, roughly, before diving down to capture his lips with his own. Oliver's hands wound into his shirt immediately, pulling him close. It was a little too easy, how readily they had fallen into each other's arms, how right it felt. Their mouths fought for dominance (because of course they did), but Oliver didn't fight when Flint lifted him up. His legs wrapped around his waist, and Oliver relished the closeness, the warmth. He nipped at the other's bottom lip, earning himself another growl. Oliver grinned. 

"You're an idiot," Flint muttered, dropping Oliver onto the bed (black silk sheets wrinkling, Oliver was vaguely aware of the dark colour palette and how very _Slytherin_ it was, he resolved to mention it later) and climbing in after him. "An absolute, fucking idiot." 

"Says the guy who almost had to repeat his seventh year," quipped Oliver.

"Fuck off." 

* * *

They laid there, in Flint's bed, sweaty and breathless (and naked). Flint didn't ask him to leave, and Oliver didn't want too. He was comfortable, resting against Flint's chest. He knew they were going to talk, that there were things to be said. It had all turned so quickly, but Oliver wasn't one to complain. 

This was the best he had felt in months. His eyes drooped heavily, the result of being out of practice on the pitch, of countless sleepless nights. He actually felt like if he went to sleep now, he wouldn't be haunted by curses flying over his head, by debris everywhere, by the dead scattered across the grounds. 

"Wood," said Flint, quietly. 

Oliver forced his eyes open, looked up. He vaguely wondered if he was about to get kicked out, if Flint would revert into familiar territory between them and- 

Flint rolled his eyes, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of his head. It was soft and loving and Oliver was beginning to think this was all a dream (not that he had ever dreamed that something like this could happen). "It was a long time coming, don't think about it too much, Wood," Flint said and his voice sounded tired, as tired as Oliver felt. "You asked if I was at Hogwarts and I jumped down your throat. I didn't like the idea of you thinking about me like that, even if you weren't. I'm good at jumping to conclusions, you know that. I wasn't at Hogwarts, but I had heard you were and even if I hadn't, I knew you would be there because you're a fucking Gryffindor and you lot just can't help yourselves." Oliver gave a shaky smile, and Flint sighed. "I was more relieved then I cared to admit when you weren't on the list of the dead, and then I saw you today and it was the same, but different. _You're_ different, I'm a little pissed off that it was so easy for me to see. Might have denied it too, had you not started asking questions and expressing _concern_."

"Do you want me to leave?" asked Oliver, softly. He wouldn't hold it against him, he wouldn't let it change anything. If nothing else, he felt relaxed. Flint fixed him with a harsh glare. 

"Did I say that, Wood? You think I would just lie around with anyone after fucking them?" He rolled his eyes. "Shut up, I'm trying to say something."

"It know it's hard for you to string a thought together." 

Flint pinched him _hard_ , and Oliver yelped. "I don't know what this is, but fuck me if Pucey wasn't right about sexual tension. There was no way I was going to fight in this war, I fucking hated my father and everything he stood for. He was an asshole, I don't regret running and it wasn't so bad. But you, you fought and it fucking shows, Oliver." Oliver looked at him in surprise at the use of his first name. "You look exhausted, from what I've heard you must have seen some shit and I hate that for you." His eyes clouded over, a frown tugging at his lips. "Not just you, but all of them. I saw Malfoy's picture in the Prophet, that kid was pain in my ass to train, but... he was just a fucking kid." He sighed, shaking his head, "Don't get me wrong, I still want to beat you on the pitch, and I will. You're annoying, obsessed, and you piss me off as much as you did at school, but I was glad to see you in front of those hoops again, a little bit too glad-"

"I knew you were throwing those quaffles with particular venom," said Oliver, accusingly. 

"The last thing I expected was to actually care how you felt and it was easy enough to ignore until today. I left early to get away from you, but of course you bloody followed me." 

"Do you regret it?" 

"Fuck no." Flint wrapped his arms around Oliver, holding him, tightly. "Listen up, because that was a good fuck and I'm in a good mood. I'm glad you survived, I don't know what you saw, I don't know what haunts you, but if you need... company, well, I suppose I'm here. I can't have my arch rival spiralling into some kind of mental breakdown, that would make playing a lot less fun. I always play at my best when I play against Puddlemere and their star Keeper after all." 

Oliver smiled, his eyes watering. He didn't cry, he wouldn't let any tears fall (they weren't that fucking close), but Oliver couldn't deny he felt lighter, as if a weight had been lifted from the pile. There was still a lot there, it still wasn't easy, but it was better. "Thank you," he whispered. 

Flint shook his head, "Don't be." He reached down, pulled the covers over them. "But don't tell anyone either, or I will hunt you down." 

Oliver chuckled, "Deal." 

They didn't talk about what this meant for them, what they were. They didn't talk about their feelings, what they really felt about each other (Oliver wasn't sure either of them knew). Flint didn't say what he had done in the year he had been on the run, and Oliver didn't talk about what he had seen. They didn't need to do that, not yet. It would come, but for now they were happy enough just being alive, being together (even if tomorrow they would fight over coffee and Oliver would storm out, only to come back two days later, tired and searching for a distraction, for that relief that came with seeing Flint and knowing he hadn't been there). 

It wasn't easy, it was never going to be easy between the two of them, but Oliver didn't care. He felt more like himself with Flint, he felt safe with Flint. How could he not? Cocooned safely in those arms, Oliver didn't have to resort to sleeping potions. 

He had all he needed. 

"We'll beat you next time," Oliver declared, noting the next away game Puddlemere played against Montrose. It was two months away, he already had a strategy in mind. Flint was their best Chaser and no one knew Flint best like Oliver. He might cop an earful for not mentioning that sooner, but if they won it wouldn't matter. 

Flint scoffed, "Not bloody likely, Wood." 

It didn't matter that they fought more often then not, it didn't matter that this was a secret that neither of them was willing to share with anyone else, that it was still new and confusing. It didn't matter, none of it mattered. Oliver was alive, Flint was alive, they were both playing the game they loved, following their dreams. That was all that mattered, that was all that ever mattered. 

"Ten galleons?" Oliver challenged, his eyes gleaming. 

Flint met his gaze, a smirk spreading across his face. "You're on." 


End file.
